


A Cold Kiss Away From Home

by Nabielka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:26:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole thing is like a fairy-tale gone terribly wrong; where the hero can't possibly have the heroine, and the sidekick is the dancing girl in another place, locked away in her own dream world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cold Kiss Away From Home

Home is the place of swirling pale, dreamy blues and glittering, bright golds, of the fresh, almost moist sound of the waves hitting the cliffs far under underneath their feet. A place mostly covered by spare, scattered books, a seemingly endless clutter of things, much to Maman's dislike. Understandable, she'd been raised in a "perfectly pristine" villa in France, within easy apparating distance of both Paris and Bauxbatons; and detested the general clutter that inevitably seemed to envelop places the Weasleys occupied. Perhaps Draco Malfoy had been right calling the Burrow a hovel so many years ago.

Some called it Shell Cottage, but to him it was always just 'Home', really, nothing more precise than that. La Maison. He could tell you the story behind nearly every single scratch on the walls, every thinning patch of worn graphite-grey carpet, every coffee stain on the dark, mahogany furniture. He could tell you how they'd painted every shining silver swirl on the dark, stormy azure walls in Dominique's room the summer after his first year; how Maman had made Victoire clean the bathroom without magic after his sister had been careless with some make-up; but even now, years later, it was still possible to see the faint, jaggered line of scarlet lipstick on the left side of the sink, the faintest shadow of pale rose blush. Privately, he wasn't quite sure that had been Vicquie, really. He'd noticed Dom putting similar coloured make-up on whenever their parents weren't around to criticize, but never mentioned it, and Dom certainly hadn't and they both knew better than to ever tell Vicquie. She was older than either of them, had had two more years of schooling at Bauxbatons, even if she wasn't a Ravenclaw like them, and the hypothetical no-magic-usage during holidays or no no-magic-usage law, it was nearly impossible to track in wizarding households and their sister would have had no qualms or reservations about hexing them both, him for keeping quiet about the whole affair and Dominique for causing the whole uproar in the first place. He has plenty of memories stacked carefully next to the heavy books in the corner of his room, spun into the large, dusky spiderweb hanging over the window, which he'd spelled so it'd stay hanging there, forever protected from his mother; hanging there for so long it could probably be classed as a muggle dream-catcher; hanging amidst his freshly ironed shirts deep inside the wardrobe, ready for taking out on a whim or need. It's familiar in a way the Burrow never was, despite Grandma Weasley's annoyingly eternal attempts to make it so, familiar in a way Hogwarts, with its shadowy, cold corridors, ever-moving muddy, marble staircases and traps ever ready to be sprung if one would drop one's guard, could never be. Could Uncle Harry really have considered it home, all those years ago? It was familiar, because it had been that way all his life and it certainly wasn't about to change now.

 

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What's not quite so familiar is the sight of Roxanne Weasley, his younger cousin Roxie (who is only his cousin, only, only, unfortunately) perched on a rickety chair by the breakfast table, dressed in a button-down green top in barely a shade darker than Slytherin, and a relatively short, pleated light denim skirt, spreading Nutella on burnt French toast and stopping occasionally to lick the steel knife clean. The gesture is so extremely child-like that for a mere fraction of a second, he sees a younger Roxie, perhaps six or seven, convinced that the tooth fairy existed and that putting sugared oatmeal on top of jam when making a sandwich would bring them all good luck, so many tales Uncle George had fooled them with. He had certainly managed to convince them all of a great many things, he remembers with a smile that's not quite nostalgic because what teenager wants to be a child, really; but none of them are so inclined to believe tales of old superstition and wonder, no matter how much easier life had been at six or seven.

Roxie of all people is certainly not a child anymore. He really shouldn't be thinking of that, not about his friend and cousin at that, but he can't really help it, especially not when she's sitting at a table merely several metres from where he's standing, leaning against the shadowed doorway. Damn, the skirt really does show off her legs to perfection; long, lean, magnolian legs, resting on a soft cushion atop a nearby chair. He looks away but barely a moment too soon, because hardly a moment after he does, her head snaps up sharply, the pale eyes they've somehow both inherited meeting. Her lips curve into a smile. Absently, he notes that unlike his sisters, she's not wearing any make-up.

"Hey" she says, wiping away a dark smudge of melted chocolate smeared at the corners of her lips, with the back of her hand. "Trust you lot to have French toast; we hardly ever have it at home."

Which reminds him, why is she here anyway? She doesn't really belong here, in a house on the chalky cliffs, near the sleepy muggle village of Tinworth in boring old Cornwall, where nothing entertaining or fun ever happens.

She belongs where she actually lives, in the almost too cramped, almost claustrophobic, flat next-door to the joke shop WWW; where the noise of the busy London streets seeping through every thin wall; a busy life at the other side of the country. Away from him, because really, she's too pretty, and pretty much the only unavailable girl he's ever been attracted to, ever wanted. He's always had it rather easy with girls; the Veela heritage had assured that, however faint it might be. He pities Maman sometimes, he pities his father for having to put up with it, but most of the time he's just glad people can talk coherently in his presence and not scream out their made-up accomplishments at him. He nearly always ended up together with whomever he happened to fancy at the time, and that was quite enough. Except it wouldn't work now, not with her, not with Roxie of all people, because he shouldn't want this.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, then rather wishes he hadn't, because that had sounded a bit too much like he doesn't actually want her there, and he'd always liked her, even before all this, this thing.

"Mum's in Croatia," she mutters, unceremoniously dumping the plate in the sink. "And Dad's bailing Fred out from muggle prison. Again. So, any plans for today?" she asks, with almost forced cheerfulness, and he hesitates, staring at her and taking in the golden hooped earrings glinting through the dark hair framing her face; the only blood family member with nearly pure black hair.

"No, there aren't," he replies finally, because pushing her away would only serve to hurt him.

 

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She's much better at chess than she'd been the last time they played, on a lazy Saturday morning in the common room, everyone else asleep except for Luke Daniels, the fourth-year with frequent insomnia. Grimly, he watches his last remaining pawn get torn apart, and wonders exactly why he'd considered this a good idea. He was once reasonably god at chess, but he can't concentrate, can't think up a reasonable strategy.

"Checkmate" Roxie says, jolting him out of his thoughts. Merde! He hadn't realised just how doomed he was, until it was too late. Abstractly, he wonders if that's supposed to be somewhat prophetic.

Roxie laughs at his doubtlessly horrified expression. Just fucking perfect, this whole screwed up situation.

Veela genes should be able to prevent his crush from laughing at him, even if she is only his cousin.

 

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Later, Dominique comes down to find them butchering each other's pieces again, and laughing like nothing matters. He tries not to turn his head to acknowledge her, too afraid that if he would, he'd just end up concentrating on Roxie again, and he's actually winning this time. But really, he's never been able to sufficiently ignore his twin sister, unlike Vicquie, who is hardly ever worth listening to at all, the empty-headed bint, and her constant bleats of "Teddy, this" and "Teddy, that" makes his ears ache. He likes Ted, honestly he does, he's funny and smart, a fellow Ravenclaw, but no one is worth hearing about all the bloody time.

Eventually though, he turns to find her staring almost thoughtfully out of the kitchen window, lit cigarette in hand, smoke curling in a cloud of blurry mist around her, illuminating every feature as if by the glow of coloured Christmas fairy-lights in the Great Hall. Almost absurdly, she looks like Aunt Luna, dreamlike and wide-eyed, staring out in the distance, even though the smoke leaving her hand must cloud her sight as it escapes though the open window, flying away to freedom and leaving the three of them behind in the grey, lifeless kitchen, as if it had never been. Louis finds himself staring after it, until it is almost completely gone, and Dom has put the cigarette out with a single twist of a high-heeled shoe. He's not looking forward to explaining to Dad and Maman exactly how their kitchen floor came to have smudges of ash burned into it, not looking forward to having to lie yet again. It's probably a Ravenclaw thing: there is never any logic in lying. Ultimately, they will always find out.

His sister turns away from the widow and sighs; picks up the remains of her cigarette, the ash crumbling away like unfulfilled dreams in her fingers. "Time to get ready, I would think," she comments lightly, as if expecting them to know exactly what she's talking about immediately. Then again, knowing her, she probably does. A mixture, or maybe just a screwed up, deliberately different, deliberately wrong version; of Maman and perhaps Tante Gabrielle. Demanding, and arrogant, a twisted combination of what muggles imagined to be fairies and their real-life counterparts.

"For what?" Roxie asks, voicing the question they are both thinking; the one he hasn't dared to ask. Last time he had, she had burst into a huge rant about how he never listened to her, despite his assertions that he had never even heard of any wizarding dance club in Manchester, much less that she actually expected him to go there. Manchester! Terribly far away, even if one knew how to apparate; which was hardly advisable when even slightly intoxicated, much less full-blown drunk as she would usually get. That had been a really horrible night, especially since he hadn't even wanted to go in the first place; and having his own sister throw up at his feet hadn't exactly made his night either.

"The Festival in the City Square, of course," is his sister's answer.

"Dom, it's the middle of winter," he says, incredulously. Even she can't be that crazy.

"Hardly," she scoffs. "Just the middle of December." That is Dom, of course. Completely disregarding, even when she is perfectly aware of what had been meant, and twists it deliberately. Always making someone else seem like a fool, lightly laughing off criticism herself with the typical Veela laugh; a bewitchingly musical twinkle.

"Still winter," he retorts. "We'll all freeze; it's way too cold to go dancing outside."

"Dancing's inside," Dom snaps, eyes set intently on Roxie. "So, are you game?"

Their cousin looks over at him, warily. Please no, please no, he thinks but of course, she doesn't know legilimency; so there's barely a tiny sliver of hope of staying home, because seriously, he's got a bad feeling about this.

"Sure," Roxie says brightly, and the hope shatters like a tossed winter snowball against a brick wall, but somehow he can't quite bring himself to be annoyed with her. Maybe it's the shy, sheepish smile she shoots at him, or maybe he's just in a little too far. Then again, he tells himself inwardly, maybe he's just bored with nothing to do. Yes, that must be it. He ignores his sister's cruel laugh, and sighs.

 

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Girls take way too long to dress, he decides; lurking round the hallway re-reading the 'Famous Law Trials of the Seventeenth Century Wizengamot'. It turns duller and duller with practically every slow tick of the tall grandfather clock as the minutes dissolve like warm butter on the tongue, forever doomed to utter boredom and the tale of a witch Impreriusing a duck to behead her husband and two of his lovers while they lay in bed together ends with the roasting of said poor duck and nunnery for the woman herself due to lack of evidence. He wonder who run the government in those times, although he supposes they didn't have 'Priori Incantatem' or Veritaserum; which was only invented in 1826, and that had been a dodgy prototype anyway, slowly burning through the swallower's vocal cords, so that by the end of the trial the verdict really hadn't mattered, because having to stand witness was punishment enough.

He soon finds that it was quite worth the wait really, because Roxie looks absolutely stunning in a very short black skirt which makes her legs look like they could almost go on forever. The make-up makes her eyes look like pale, fragile glass; frozen ice over a pond. He's very much aware that he's staring, but can't seem to stop, only snatching his jaw back up from what he is sure is in fact the carpeted floor when she winks at him, a wicked smile on her face.

He only snaps back to reality when his sister steps on his foot when leaning over to take her coat off a hanging peg; and then actually has the audacity to hiss at him to be glad that it hadn't been the heel. He supposes she's right but still, sometimes he wonders what the point of an sœur jumelle, a twin-sister, or even siblings in general is. He thinks Roxie would probably agree, because really, Fred is an absolute menace who doesn't know how to properly occupy himself and resorts to irritating, childish pranks, which sadly, Uncle George encourages. At least they have Aunt Angelina on their side, because unfortunately, his and their cousin James's names had hardly been misnomers.

 

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Snow falls all around them as they walk to the nearby village of Tinworth. It's not a particularly long walk; they live just on the outskirts but it seems so much longer that day, as they walked in odd, patterns as they did to avoid sloshing through the muddy rainwater puddles. Snow fell, but melted barely a second or so later, leaving nothing but wet, tingling dots behind, and the mere memory of a cold kiss against one's outstretched hand. Probably more sleet than snow, another reminder of why exactly the cold was apparently not a sufficient excuse to get out of this, because it promised to be complete and absolute torture. But he walks on with them, those two girls who mean the world to him, his family, although they are each as different in appearance as day and night; and although his feelings for them are certainly not the same, because really, he has no choice. And deep inside, he know he would've gone anyway, even if he'd been offered a way out, because it had never even occurred to him to flat-out refuse. It was Roxie, after all.

 

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Dominique, the bloody traitor, abandons them all too soon as she departs to flirt and dance with yet another handsome man. Clearly, there are advantages to being part Veela, even if that part is only about one eighth. The last time he'd seen her, it had been some Spaniard or Italian but that had been at least twenty minutes ago, so she was probably twirling away with yet another besotted-looking bloke, probably Polish this time. One never really knew with his sister; she liked to have her fun. And if someone got hurt on the way, then it was only their fault for being too trusting, too naïve, too attached. He doesn't think he'd like a girlfriend like her; she's too self-obsessed, too carelessly cruel. It's Maman's fault and influence, Maman's genes and Maman's blood; blood that flows in both of their veins and even Victoire's, except she's not there and it doesn't matter because he hadn't seen her in over a year and he doesn't even miss her. They've never gotten on, anyway.

Melting snowdrops drip from the tips of Roxie's dark hair as she laughs, the sound sweet in the chill air of the winter's evening. Her cheeks are flushed, but whether it's from the heat of the dance club or the outside coldness he doesn't know. She really looks alive in that moment, a dark angel at once illuminated and shadowed by the bright lights of passing streetlamps as they walk through the town. The place is actually alive tonight, full of flashing party lights that seemingly go on forever as they transform the world into a messy, kaleidoscopic haze. It is loud, full of shouts and moans of pleasure, terrible singing and sharp laughter over the music that sounded like screams. It had stifled many a conversation indoors, but now it seemed far-away, more distant and unimportant the further from the club they walked, another reality. It was a busy night, and they passed many couples, talking and kissing under the moonlit sky. No one seemed to mind the falling snow. The whole thing was like a fairy-tale gone terribly wrong; where the hero can't possibly have the heroine, and the (un)faithful sidekick is the dancing girl in another place, locked away in her own dream world.

"Do you ever think about-" Roxie starts to say, but the rest of the sentence is lost, drowned in the words of a shouting drunk wrapped up in a big red duffel coat, who leers at them both as they walk past.

"Ahhh yeees, yooou'll dooo for a quoooick tuuuumbble" he slurs, reaching out for Roxie, who flinches and twists away, pulling on Louis' arm in an attempt to drag him away through the streets. He hadn't even noticed his own hand moving towards his trouser pocket, where he keeps his wand, before she grabs at it, pulling it away. In the moonlight, he can see royal blue veins through the pale skin, the very blood that makes wanting her so very wrong, even now, there in a muggle alley where no one knows them or who they are, a thankful reprieve which he had almost ruined by causing the Aurors' arrival, and possibly even his own arrest, just like her brother. His usual rationality is clearly enjoying its very own special Christmas holiday, because this is a muggle village and he usually has much more sense than that. There's the Statue of Secrecy to consider, of course. He can't just go hexing muggles left and right, even for such a comment to the girl he fancies; Vanquisher of Voldemort's nephew or not, or whatever the Prophet's calling Uncle Harry this week; and he especially can't do it to such obvious drunkards, because intellectually he should know that the man means no harm, that he doesn't actually realise what he's doing.

"Just ignore him," she says calmly and he wonders exactly just how Roxie could sound like when faced with such blatant objectification in the form of crude innuendo. He turns his head sharply to look at her, and sees a slight frown and a fixedly determined expression. Maybe she's just trying to force herself to seem calm and collected, like Aunt Audrey and Uncle Percy somehow always manage to be.

They move to walk away, but the drunk trails after them, stumbling every few steps. Almost spitefully, Louis wishes he would only fall, and just leave them alone to have their walk, that little stolen moment in time, because it's the only thing he'll ever be able to have on his own with Roxie, who would probably be disgusted and hate him if she ever found out exactly how he felt about her. Annoyingly, the stupid muggle doesn't; a rather surprising feat for a man who seems so drunk he shouldn't be able to do anything, much less stalk them.

But he trails after them, shouting provoking comments, and randomly bursting into roaring giggles. Louis wants to punch him in the face, or even better, hex him into next week, while knowing perfectly well exactly why he can't.

"Go ouuut with mmeee loveey," someone else slurs, as he and three others join the first drunken man. Roxie rolls her eyes and he can see her gag ever so slightly at the reeking odour of the cheap alcohol on their breath, obviously fighting the urge.

"I'm already going out with him," she lies, pointing to Louis; giving up on dragging him along the dimly lit street like a marionette. He stops abruptly, shocked to a standstill, hearing his own heart thudding like the drums during the beat of the especially fast muggle song Lily had played after family dinner last week. Had she really just said...?

Apparently she had, because right then one of those men shouts "Give us a show then!", possibly not believing her, but more likely simply being a fucking pervert with a penchant for teenagers. He wants to kill Dom for making him come here, because if they hadn't then the whole fucking situation wouldn't have arisen in the first place.

Roxie turns to face him. Her eyes seem dark in the narrow alley, face clouded by shadows from the nearby lampposts; and he can't read her expression. With her right hand, she reaches up to tuck stray dark hair behind her ear. She steps closer to him; until the space between them is less than a metre, a foot, six inches, two... she kisses him.

It's different than he'd imagined, as most things tend to be, but he certainly hadn't thought their first kiss would happen in a cold, wet alley in the nearby village, abandoned by his sister and surrounded by muggle drunks. Actually, he hadn't really dared to hope that it would actually happen, no matter the fantasies. But her lips are soft against his, albeit slightly cold and he can taste the raspberry lip-gloss she'd applied earlier, and it's perfect in its own way. His arm reaches around her of its own accord as he pulls her closer to ever so slightly deepen the kiss. He can hear the leers and catcalls of the drunken men around them, but it doesn't matter because nothing matters at that particular moment except Roxie's lips against his own.

He hears a shout and a couple of thuds closely followed by a loud, sudden splash; and breaks the kiss abruptly, gasping for breath as he turns around, left hand already reaching into his pocket to retrieve his wand. He looks up, and lets it fall down to his side in what he hopes won't be taken as a sign of defeat. He ends up looking straight into the widened hazel eyes of his own twin sister, standing merely a few metres away, hands on hips, hair the colour of captured moonlight billowing out behind her in the rising wind, wand out, stupefied bodies of the once-drunken muggles around them (the first one half-submerged in a large puddle,) staring at them, a shocked, incredulous expression twisting her face into something almost subhuman.

Irresistibly, he's reminded of pureblood Veelas before an anger attack, not quite bird-like but not fully human either, Grandmere in one of her fits perhaps, but he's never seen his sister so angry. And certainly not this sister, not Dom; because if anyone had asked, he'd have substituted Victoire into her place. After all, she already fulfils the role of a bitchy, controlling, sadistic bitch. But it's not Vicquie, it is Dominique, Dom who looks angrier than he'd ever seen her before, wand pointed straight at him and suddenly, he thinks that perhaps he should've taken out that wand earlier after all because none of this bodes well for him.

Fuck.

Would it really be too much to ask for a normal, safe Christmas holiday, or is that some kind of a luxury never to be granted to anyone related to the Potters?

Maybe he's been doomed from birth to this, this very possible death in an alley in the nearby muggle village, having not even fully completed his schooling at Hogwarts, by his own twin sister's hand, all because of kissing a beautiful girl who just happened to also be his cousin. Amidst it all, he reaches down for Roxie's hand in the dusky light of the evening and waits for his world to fall apart.


End file.
